When modern deer hunting seasons were first established in Georgia during the late 1950s and early ’60s, it was against the law to hunt on Sunday in many (if not all) Georgia counties. Sometimes these laws were enforced and sometimes they were not, depending on the sheriff in any particular county. I can remember many a frustrating Sunday in deer camp when we boys were not allowed to hunt. Perhaps even worse, we were not even allowed to shoot off any type of firearm because of the noise factor.
I never broke that rule, and I don’t know what would have happened if I had. In some Georgia counties where we hunted, we were led to believe that if you so much as fired a .22 on the Sabbath, the local sheriff, who we just knew was waiting in the bushes for us to make the slightest transgression, would surround you with a pack of deputies and haul you away to the big house for an indefinite period of time.
The no hunting on Sunday laws began changing during the early ’70s. Eventually, hunting on Sunday became very important, because so many “weekend warriors” had to work on weekdays.
Click Here to Read Part I
Part 2
Logan and Marty were up well before daylight on Sunday morning. As planned, they ate a quick breakfast, made some sandwiches for lunch and headed for the woods. They arrived back in camp around 2 o’clock. Several of the regular club members had already left for home, and the few remaining hunters in camp were tidying up and packing their gear.
“Well, tell us all about it,” Uncle Buck said as he placed an empty five-gallon water container in the back of his truck. “I’m sure you two saw big-antlered bucks runnin’ all around the swamp this mornin’, right?”
“We sure did,” Marty answered.
Logan nodded in agreement. “We saw two good bucks just like you said we probably would,” he told Uncle Buck. “One was a nice nine-pointer. The other was a good eight. He was just a little smaller.”
“Was it hard not being able to shoot?” Uncle Buck asked.
“No, not really,” Logan answered. “As it turned out, we didn’t have to.” He and Marty glanced at each other and grinned.
“What do you mean?” Uncle Buck asked with a puzzled look.
“Well, we got ’em up as far as the creek crossing near where the main trail forks, but that’s about as far as we could drag ’em,” Logan said, matter-of-factly. “They’re both field-dressed, but we sure could use some help gettin’ ’em the rest of the way back to camp.”
Several men who had overheard Logan talking stopped what they were doing to listen more closely.
“What did you say?” Uncle Buck asked, pausing dead in his tracks as well.
“I said, they’re both lying in the trail near the fork, and we’d sure appreciate some help gettin’ ’em back to camp,” Logan spoke with an award-winning poker face. “They’re pretty heavy. I’d say they each dressed out at around 170 pounds.”
The two boys had carefully rehearsed their lines all the way back to camp, and now the words were flowing perfectly.
Uncle Buck puffed up like a strutting turkey. “What? Two bucks? You’re telling me you killed two bucks this morning. I told you boys you couldn’t hunt. We didn’t hear any shots. Will someone please tell me what’s going on, here?”
“You didn’t hear any shots because there weren’t any,” Marty said, grinning broadly.
“Then how in the… Oh, I get it. It’s a joke, right?” Uncle Buck asked.
“No, it’s not a joke,” Logan said, seriously. “We have two nice bucks on the ground, and we plan to get ’em both mounted.”
“You’re telling me you killed two nice bucks this morning?” Uncle Buck asked again incredulously.
“No, we didn’t say that,” Logan answered. “We said we have two bucks on the ground, but we didn’t say anything about killing them. We weren’t allowed to shoot anything, remember?”
Uncle Buck sat down on the tailgate of the truck, shaking his head. By now, the three or four remaining men in camp had also gathered around to hear what promised to be a very interesting explanation.
“I give up,” Uncle Buck said, raising both hands as if he were under arrest. “You two got me good. Somehow, I’m thinkin’ this might be payback time for all the tricks we’ve played on you over the past few years, and for all the chores we make you do around camp. That’s it, ain’t it?”
“This isn’t any payback,” Marty said. “This is serious stuff.”
“Okay, then let’s hear it,” Uncle Buck said. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a real doozy.”
“You can say that again,” Logan agreed. “You’re not gonna believe it. It’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened in any deer camp that we’ve ever heard of. That’s for sure!”
Both boys were excited now. They started talking non-stop at the same time. Within seconds, they were practically yelling.
“Whoa! Wait a minute! Slow down!” Uncle Buck yelled. “Nobody can understand a word you’re sayin’. One at time, please. Logan, you go first. Take it slow and easy and try to talk in English if you don’t mind.”
“Okay,” Logan said, taking a deep breath. “Here’s what happened this morning, and it’s the honest-to-goodness truth. Since we weren’t allowed to hunt, Marty and I decided to go down to the big platform stand on the little peninsula overlooking the swamp so we could sit together.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Uncle Buck said. “Go on….”
“Well, we saw a couple of does right after daylight, but things were pretty quiet until about 11 o’clock. All of a sudden, this big eight-pointer came bounding through the woods chasing a doe. They disappeared, and then a big nine-pointer came along. He was slightly bigger than the eight. He disappeared, too. A few minutes later, all he… er… heck started breaking loose just over the ridge. We heard all kind of crashing and banging for about five minutes. It sounded like somebody beating on trees with a baseball bat. Then the doe came sneaking back in front of our stand. The two bucks followed. Just as they got about 40 yards out in front of the stand, they stopped and squared off at each other again. It was unbelievable! I mean they were tearing bushes out of the ground and trying to kill each other. The hair on their necks was standing straight up.”
“That’s usually what bucks do when they fight,” Uncle Buck said matter-of-factly.
“It was a battle to the death and we had a front-row seat!” Marty added.
“The eight-pointer suddenly got in a good lick and horned the nine-pointer in the abdomen right behind his ribs,” Logan continued. “You could hear the antler go in, and when the eight-pointer jerked away, the nine just stood there with his head down and his tongue hanging out. The eight hit him again, and blood was coming out. You could pretty much tell it was all over for the nine. Suddenly the eight got his head down one last time and charged. The nine sort of side-stepped him, and when he did, he sank his antlers right into the shoulder of the eight. One of the tines went right through his heart. Then it was over for both of them.
“The eight immediately walked over to a large pine and piled up on the ground. Within a few minutes, his head went over and he was dead. The nine staggered off through the woods. We got down and followed him. He only made it about 75 yards. He was dead, too. We found him in the middle of the trail.”
“The whole thing was unbelievable!” Marty added.
Uncle Buck appeared to be doing some calculating in his head for a few moments.
“So, the bottom line is, you boys have yourselves two good bucks on the ground, and nobody fired a single shot at either one of them. Is that about the size of it?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Logan answered.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Uncle Buck said. “You’re right. That’s about dangest fish story this old fool has ever heard coming out of a deer camp. And I’ve heard some real whoppers! Sunday or not, day of rest or not, I reckon we’ve got a pair of bucks out in the woods that need to be tended to. I knew you two boys were somethin’ special first time I ever saw you. Is there anything else?”
“There is just one other thing,” Marty said.
“Yeah,” Logan seconded. “We learned something pretty important while we were sittin’ in our stand today, and we didn’t have to be in any church to figure it out.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” Uncle Buck asked.
“We’ve hunted hard this whole season, and neither one of us has even come close to pulling the trigger. So what they say is true: The Good Lord sure works in mysterious ways!”
Southern storytelling at its best, A Thousand Distant Gobbles is a celebration of turkey hunting through the eyes of some unforgettable and passionate characters who live for opening day of turkey season. Heartwarming, powerful, compelling – the eight short stories and eight turkey vignettes found inside these pages will warm your heart and take you on an unforgettable adventure into the spring turkey woods. Buy Now
